The Five Times Clint and Natasha First Met
by JustKeepOnTheGrass
Summary: "You're different" - "I have a habit" [Clint X Natasha. Movie-verse. R&R]
1. The First Time

**The Five Times Clint and Natasha First Met**

_This has to be written. But bear in mind, this is movie-verse. I haven't read the comic books at all so everything in this story is based on my own interpretations of the characters. Their backgrounds and stories are what I imagine to have happened. So, you have been warned - it is probably not in line with comic-canon. Please __**READ**__ and __**REVIEW**__! Reviews are better than chocolatey stuff - and that's saying a lot!_

**(1) **

The first time, she was Katie Westwood, living in a white house in Maine, in a little bedroom with green curtains and stars on the ceiling. She had a set of parents- fake, of course; they made dinner for her every evening and they kept a mini van in the garage of their American suburban home. She was twelve years old, or so she believed. He was a little bit older, but then again, she could never really tell with him. Liars, the both of them; they had forgotten how to tell the truth.

He took the seat opposite of her in the school library. She noted the messy brown hair, the school bag slung over his right shoulder and the casual way in which he threw down a textbook on the whitewashed table: Trigonometry.

"Hi. Katie, is it?"

She narrowed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

"I'm Rick. They assigned me as your ..uh, tutor."

She still did not say anything. He regarded her; she was a little girl with fiery red hair with eyes like bullets. She was small for her age, slim and supple. The school uniform she wore was in amazing condition, unlike his, and he noticed she was reading _Kafka_ before he arrived. She now lowered the said book, shifting slightly in her seat, and he immediately noticed that her eyes flicked towards the library door; her exit route was now marked.

"Who are you again?" she asked.

"Rick. I'm a senior. I'm supposed to be your -"

"Tutor, right," she interrupted, closing the book. "I didn't ask for a tutor."

"Well, you got assigned one."

"And they sent you?"

"Apparently."

Then, she smiled - a smile of someone much older. It was calculating and almost cruel; he started to realize that they might have underestimated this little weapon.

"You are not a student here," she said simply.

"I don't know what you mean." _Maintain the cover, _they said.

"The way you wear your uniform is all wrong. The shoes, the bag, it all screams _set up_." She raised her eyebrows. "No mention the fact that I have not seen you in this school before today. And trust me, if you were a student,_ I _would know."

He remained still.

Finally, she leaned forward: "So, one last chance. Who are you?"

He leaned forward as well, close enough so it was only she who could hear what he had to say. She noticed that his eyes were very brown; they were hard and unmoving. She stared right back.

"The question here isn't who _I _am," said he, "but who are _you..._Natasha?"

Natasha's expression did not betray anything. She held the gaze for a moment longer, then relaxed back into her chair. Her fingers began drumming on the table.

"Are you here to kill me..._Rick?_"

"Surprisingly not."

"Then..."

"We know what you are, little girl." She flinched at the address. He chose not to comment, but continued calmly: "You and your false identity. The house, the parents, the school... It's all as real as my fucking get-up today."

"Arrest me, then," said Natasha, her voice rising defiantly. When he did not reply, she begun to understand; the same smile spread across her face.

"Oh, but you can't yet, can you?" said she playfully. "You need me. You don't need me dead just yet. You just want to _watch _me. Keep me in check, isn't that right?"

She accepted his silence as confirmation. She stopped drumming her fingers and cocked her head slightly to the left, appraising the young boy opposite of her. "So...what now?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Trying to trick me is endearing."

"Watch it, little girl." He measured her with his eyes. "I know what you are... the girl born from fire. Already with blood on your hands. Impressive, actually. But don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one."

"I'm not a little girl," she snapped. "If you knew..."

"The hospital in Washington, the congressman from New York - all you," he interrupted, his voice biting. "I know enough."

"Then, you should know to be afraid. Very afraid." Her green eyes flashed. "If I were you, I would kill me right now at this table. But the problem seems to be you need me alive a little longer..."

This time, it was he who smiled. "Just a little longer, little girl," said he. "Only a little longer."

"You keep calling me a little girl. Why?" She had to ask despite of herself. "How old are _you_ then?"

"Seventeen," said he immediately.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I can tell."

He lapsed into silence again. Natasha studied his face; it was an old face, she decided. It looked young, but it masked an older soul- an older being, who had seen too much and done too much. She recognized such a face easily; she was too familiar with it.

"I expect I'll see you again one day," said Natasha. "I'll look forward to it."

"You look forward to killing me." He had to smile amusingly at that.

"Not if you don't kill me first." She pushed back her chair and stood up. He figured if he did the same, she would come up to only his shoulders. He didn't stand up, though; he decided it was easier this way. His orders had been to _let her go. Not to compromise the mission. _

Natasha was standing over him, looking down with a few strands of red hair in her eyes. "You're different," she stated bluntly.

"I have a habit."

"You know my name," said she slowly. "What is yours, then?"

"And why should I tell you, little girl?" He smirked, knowing it would irritate her. "So you can hunt me down tonight and kill me in my sleep?"

"I won't do that."

He laughed. "You won't kill me because you don't see any profit in it. Yet."

Natasha's blank expression told him that he was right. "Go on, Natasha. Leave."

"I want your name."

"Why is it important?" he asked disbelievingly.

"It just _is._" Her eyes bore into his. Her face remained emotionless, but those eyes... he realized they could trap you - make you do things you couldn't take back. It was like he had seen them somewhere before. But, really, he had not.

"Clint," he found himself saying out loud. "That's my name. Clint."

She nodded. "Alright then."

He nodded back. It was a farewell, of a sort. Clint watched as she walked around him and went towards the exit. The school bag she was carrying kept bouncing off her leg and her red hair framed her tiny, impassive face. She looked incredibly young just then. Before she reached the door, she turned back and spotted him again. She raised her voice so he could hear her.

"Hey, Clint!" said she, "You're still not seventeen."

Then she was gone, through the door in a flash of red and gold.

And that was the first time.


	2. The Second Time

**The Five Times Clint and Natasha First Met**

_The fight sequence was a nightmare but please still review away! _

**(2) **

The second time, it was six years later and she was twenty two years old, or she was supposed to be anyway. Her name was Jane Ellis, with light brown hair and efficient skill at organization, especially for mafia leaders who were in aid of KGB. He was Jack Cole, Head of security for Richard Branson, the third richest man in America. He was still a few years older, but like always, she could never really tell with him.

Before their encounter, Clint had the misfortune of prepping Richard Branson, the third richest man in America and a downright coward, according to the SHIELD agent.

"Listen, keep calm and follow the plan," Clint was saying threateningly. The billionaire was, however, sweating profusely and the hand holding his cigar shook. "Pull yourself together, for fuck's sake. If you keep acting like a cowering idiot, your cover will be blown in an instant."

"Well, I'm a fucking double agent, aren't I?" spat Branson. He was a rather large middle age man, with a big nose and a cruel mouth, which was now trembling with anxiety. "I'm as good as dead. The second Calhoun steps on this yatch, he's gonna know the game's up and blow my brains out."

"That's the spirit, Branson." Clint sighed exasperatedly. "All you have to do is carry on as normal and _make the deal. _My job is to keep you alive, so you better make it an easy one."

"Mr. Branson!" shouted the captain, interrupting the two. "There's a speed boat approaching!"

"Well, here we go," said Clint. Branson quickly rubbed his forehead nervously and dropped the cigar over the side.

The speed boat drew up against Branson's yatch and two burly bodyguards stepped out first, both with dark suits and sunglasses. Clint noted the bulges in their pockets and knew they were heavily armed. Then, Mickey Calhoun followed; tall, broad-shouldered and immaculately dressed, the mafia leader strode up to Branson arrogantly, his arms opened wide in greeting.

"Hello there, Branson, my good friend," said Calhoun, in a tone that suggested anything but. Branson offered him a strained smile. "What a lovely yatch you've got here, indeed."

"Splendid to see you, Calhoun," replied Branson, convincingly enough. Then, Barton's noticed his small eyes lighting up; he followed Branson's gaze and spotted another figure following behind Calhoun.

She had changed drastically since the last time they saw each other. She was a woman now, a beautiful one at that; it was a fact he instantly acknowledged. But it was those same unyielding eyes, the same mouth and the same motion in which she moved that jogged his memory.

Calhoun looked around at his companion. "Ah, gentlemen," said he proudly, as if he was exhibiting a prized possession. "This is my assistant, Miss Ellis. She has been making amazing contributions, as you can probably gather."

Natasha stopped next to Calhoun and handed him a thick red file. Her gaze immediately fell on Barton, who stood to the side, not taking his eyes off her for a second. He would not repeat the same mistake again.

"Thank you, my dear," said Coulhoun to Natasha. "Now, Branson, why don't you and I have a little talk, eh? Take in the scenery."

Branson attempted to smile, but it appeared more like a grimace. "Yes, why not?"

The two men distanced themselves from the others and approached the side of the yatch. Clint, however, kept his position.

"Hello. It's been a while." She had come up right next to him.

"Hello, Natasha. I should have known you'd be involved in this."

"And I should have expected you to be here." She didn't sound angry, but rather amused. "I did say we'd meet again."

"Yeah, well, same line of work. We're bound to cross paths," replied Clint casually, eyes fixed on Branson. "You've grown taller."

"You look the same."

"Nice hair, by the way."

"Can't say the same about yours, though."

"Wow, that hurts," said Clint sarcastically. "KGB taught you that?"

"Funny," replied Natasha.

"By the way, why are we chit-chatting like old friends? Want of company?" Clint smirked. "I can't imagine Calhoun to be an intelligent sort."

"Neither is your idiot Branson," said Natasha. "I'm going to shoot that cowardly back-stabbing son of a bitch right between the eyes."

"Colorful vocabulary, that."

"Oh, you have no idea."

Clint was waiting for it. Natasha pulled out her gun and he immediately smashed it out of her hand. She, quick as ever, drew out a dagger and threw it hard with all her might. Branson let out a howling scream and the American billionaire slid to the floor of the deck, Natasha's dagger sticking out of his blood-soaked chest.

"God damn it!" swore Clint. He drew out his own gun and shot straight at Colhoun. Once, twice, and the mafia lord lay dead in his own pool of blood. Fury would be livid.

Clint dove for cover as Colhoun's bodyguard began shooting right at him. He looked around and saw that Natasha had already taken out the yatch's captain and the two crew members; she had slit their throats and killed them all in the matter of seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her running towards the speed boat.

"That is so fucking inconvenient."

Clint loaded up his gun and, after a few short breaths, threw himself out into the open. The bodyguards were no match for him. The SHILED agent's bullets found their targets and the two men got blown against the side of the ship. Clint had no time to consider his options. He rushed after Natasha and as the speed boat was taking off, he jumped.

The fall was painful, but Clint struggled to his feet. His next bullet immediately found the driver and the speed boat spun dangerously out of control as the man who was steering it lay sprawled, bleeding and spluttering, across the wheel.

Natasha reacted instantly. She kicked the gun right out of Clint's hand and he caught sight of her fist coming right at him. He ducked.

Then, as it usually did, his training kicked in. All of his senses became heightened and he threw himself into the rhythm of the fight. She was strong, he realized, and light on her feet. Most of all, she was cunning, but then again, so was he.

Clint drove her towards the front of the boat. She kept her ground, lashing well-aimed kicks and punches at him with such amazing speed. Then, he lowered his head and dove straight at her, grabbing her legs from underneath her and throwing them both into the sea.

Water filled his vision and Cint grabbed blindly for the surface. When he found air again, he discovered her coming up next to him, spluttering out water.

"What - the - _hell_ - was that?" demanded Natasha. Clint quickly noticed that they were a far distance away from the speed boat; his jump was well-carried out then. "I was _winning."_

"No, you weren't," said Clint, keeping himself afloat. "I say we call a truce."

"Truce?"

"Unless you want to fight in the water." He grinned in spite of himself. "I think it would be very uncomfortable."

"What? Are you going to bring me in?" she asked dryly. "You don't bring people like me in."

"Yes, I'm supposed to kill people like you."

"But here you are, attempting to bring me in." She looked at him steadily with her green eyes. "Careful, now."

"Who said I was brining you in?" said Clint.

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, then."

Before he could react, she disappeared beneath the water. Swearing angrily, Clint dove down after her, but this was where Natasha found her advantage. She hoisted herself up the side of the speed boat just as Clint resurfaced again. She pressed on the acceleration and the boat lurched forward. Clint, who had just grabbed on to the back of the boat, felt it slipped from his grasp.

"Natasha! Natasha!"

But she did not reply, nor did she slow down. The boat picked up speed and sped away from Clint, roaring into the distance and away into the open sea.

Fury would be livid. Again.

_Fuck. _

And that was the second time.


	3. The Third Time

**The Five Times Clint and Natasha First Met**

_Thank you for all the favourites and follows. Please still drop by, read, and tell me what you think! _

**(3) **

The third time, she was nobody, already widowed and now a threatening shadow. He was a master SHIELD assassin, flew into Sao Paulo from a successful mission still with the desert sand in his hair. He recognized her handiwork straight away; it had been dotted throughout SHIELD's history for the last ten years, even before he last saw her in the Cyrus sea three years ago. It was gruesome, to say the least; an entire floor with no survivors. Fury led him through the lobby where two secretaries were slumped over their desks, all life gutted out of them in an instant, and through to the boardroom. Years of training made Clint take in all the details in an instant: seventeen men in suits with their throats cut, still in their chairs. The speaker at the head of the table was crumpled on the ground, a bullet between the eyes. Another man must have tried to escape, but she caught him in time; he was cut down just as he reached the door and there was a small silver dagger dislodged in his throat.

"It's her all right," said Fury, arms crossed. "Eighteen top cabinet members assassinated by one person - that must be some hell of a record, right?"

"Yes, sir, it seems that way," replied Clint. He surveyed the crime scene again; SHEILD had already arrived and set a perimeter. A few agents were gathering evidence, bending over the bodies of the victims. He looked back at Fury, whose jaw was set and had the signature glint in his eye: manic. "You called me in, Sir?"

"Yes, Agent Barton, I did," replied the Director. "It's time we end this."

"You mean - end her."

Fury did not contradict. "We should have ended it a long time ago. Since all those years back in Maine - we should not have hesitated." He sent Clint an accusing look. "And I thought you would have got her three years ago, with the Colhoun case."

"Sorry, sir, my mistake. Won't happen again."

"Damn well it won't."

Clint hesitated, and then said steadily: "Sir, you called me in, and I'm the best - "

"So sure of yourself," chuckled Fury.

" - and I'm the best -" Clint continued without a hitch, "You all know I am. So that means one thing, doesn't it , sir? You want _me_ to kill her."

"Agent Barton, do I need to make my orders even more clear?"

"No, sir, you don't," said Clint, his voice hard. "However, I still think there's more to it." Fury did not reply, so he pushed on, "We know she's been raised by KGB. They practically brainwashed her, did all kinds of shit to her. But still, she's one of the best. You don't get one like this everyday. Why don't we turn it to our benefit?"

"The time has passed for bringing her in, goddamn it."

"I'm no better than her."

"Yes you are, and you should sure as hell remember that," said Fury. "Whatever advantage you think she might be to us - what she is is one hell of a risk. It is not your call to make, is that clear, Agent Barton?"

Clint did not reply, but nodded stiffly. Fury relaxed and uncrossed his arms, sighing exasperatedly. "All this shit needs to stop now. Find her, and kill her."

"Yes, sir."

Fury seemed satisfy with the answer. He was about to turn around and leave when he remembered something. He addressed his agent again, calmer than before. "Do you need anything, Barton?"

"All the records we have of her and her movements in the last five years. All the databases that you can find. I need everything at my disposal."

"Got it."

"And sir?"

"Yes?"

"A real strong cup of coffee would be nice."

Fury laughed and Clint offered a strained smile of his own.

...

Finding her was trickier than Clint would have liked, but everything about her was tricky, he thought. They all assumed she would have fled the city and made her escape, but he knew she was much cleaver than that. It took him a day to find her, and he was right; she was still lying low in the city, hidden in the slums area, blending in with the locals. He found her room; it was a small broken down space on top of a pirated DVD store with only a bed, a wash basin and an empty bag on the floor. So, he knew she would relocate soon. He had to move fast.

Natasha went for a run every morning, along the market and around the canal, doubling back twice. Clint set up his sniper rifle in a nearby deserted office building. It was an ideal location; the view was just right and with the weapon in his hands, familiar and friendly, she was conveniently in his radar. Just a pull of the trigger and she would crumble like a leaf, a bullet lodged in a fatal area in her brain and she would be lying dead in the dusty street in a matter of seconds. Death was such a fickle thing, so easily maneuvered.

Clint was waiting for her, and she came as expected. She had dyed her hair black and tied it up for the run; she was no longer the little girl he met all those years ago. Clint watched as she turned the corner, her sprints gathering up speed, and an image jumped into his mind: Natasha, small and young, with the school bag bouncing off her hip and the look he gave her at the door's threshold. Fury's face when he had gave the order...

His fingers wrapped around the trigger, and he made a call.

...

Natasha knew something was wrong the moment she unlocked the door. He was sitting in the chair by the window, gun pointed straight at her.

"I see someone has a job to do," she greeted casually.

Clint lowered the gun and when she seemed astounded by the gesture, he threw it on the ground and kicked it towards her. The weapon slid to a stop right at her feet and her eyes snapped up in surprise.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a call," said Clint, still unmoved.

Natasha grabbed the gun and aimed it at him. Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "I don't understand."

"I'm disobeying orders," said Clint. "I'm not killing you."

"Then I will kill you!" she shouted, the hand holding the gun shook slightly. "I mean it!"

"I know you do." His voice remained calm. "I know what you've done, I believe you. But I'm not going to defend myself. So, if you have to shoot me, then shoot me."

Natasha did not move. For the first time, she was doing something she had never done. She was... hesitating.

"Natasha, listen to me," said Clint softly, "I'm not going to kill you. I'm putting my life into your hands. But I'm asking you...to come in."

"Don't tempt me, I will shoot," snapped Natasha.

"They filled your head with all those fucking Russian bullshit. Listen to me - it's not too late."

"I know what you're doing!" The hand holding the gun began shaking again. Clint was seeing something he had never seen before in Natasha: she was losing control. "I know what you're up to! You're trying to trick me into working for you. Or you're going torture me for information and kill me anyway...You're trying to trick me."

"No, Natasha, I'm not." He caught her eye and did not look away. "I'm not tricking you. SHIELD can use you. I'm making you an offer."

"What if I said no?" she demanded.

"Then you'd have to kill me."

But Natasha did not pull the trigger. Her lips trembled and her hand shook, but she still did not shoot. Clint did not look away - it was his only chance, to try and make her understand. Finally, a word slipped out from her lips: "Why?"

"Do you remember the first time we met?" asked Clint. "Do you remember what you said to me?"

She averted her gaze.

"You said I was different," said Clint. "So here I am, being different."

Her eyes watered but no tears fell. She took a step closer, the gun still aimed at Clint. "I don't want to do this."

"You said I was different," he repeated. "And so are you." He offered his hands to her, palms up, as a sign of surrender. "So, Tasha, what's it going to be?"

And that was the third time.


	4. The Fourth Time

**The Five Times Clint and Natasha First Met**

_Last chapter was pretty awful by my standards. Hope you find this one better even though it is quite short. Drop by and review! _

**(4) **

The fourth time, she was Natasha - whoever Natasha was. It was a month since she opened the door to her flat in Sao Paulo and found Clint in the chair. A month had passed and there had been a man with an eye-patch. There had been a lot of yelling, there had been needles stuck into her flesh, there had been faces...too many faces. They had to lock her up, she remembered, because she was going out of control. And then, she had gone quiet. There were bruises on her skin, a terrible aching in her head. Now she woke, her arms and legs bound to the bed. A strange drumming sound filled her ears and something was crawling from inside of her - a monster with sharp claws trying to break free, scratching the inside of her brain. Her vision blurred for a moment, and then everything came into focus. Rather, his face came into focus.

"You're going to be okay, Natasha."

She tilted her head back, groaning as the pain gripped her. "You don't know that, Clint."

Clint did not say anything. She saw him approaching her and then his hand was on forehead. Everything felt cold.

"Your temperature's gone down," said Clint. "How are you feeling?"

"Not ecstatic at the moment." She closed her eyes briefly, swallowing down the ache. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days." He disappeared from her vision, and then he was back. He pushed something that felt like plastic against her mouth and she felt the coldness of the water as it touched her lips.

"Thanks," Natasha mumbled.

He put the glass away and began undoing the ropes around her arms.

"Are you sure that's safe?"

"You're fine now," assured Clint. He untied her legs, and when she could move freely again, she slowly sat up. The world spun into view and she had to put her hands on the side of the bed to steady herself.

Clint took a seat next to her. "You alright?"

"Better." She ran a hand through her hair and then turned to look at him. "Why are you being kind to me?"

"I'm never kind," said Clint. "I'm just doing my job."

She lowered her eyes. "So what's next?"

"You just need time."

She closed her eyes briefly. "I saw..."

"You don't have to tell me, Natasha."

"I saw..." She looked at him, and her eyes were frightened. "...fire. Fire everywhere."

"Natasha..."

"Fire. Blood. Worlds overturned. Monsters coming out of the sky and smoke everywhere. Then, I was a little girl again and there was...there was..."

"Natasha, you need to rest, okay?" Clint rested an assuring hand on her shoulder. "We know this isn't going to be easy."

"But I can't rest, Clint, you know that," said Natasha. "How do you sleep...when all you see is red? All the time."

"Like I said...you're not the only one." His hand dropped and he sighed. "I'm going to ask them to give you something...to help you sleep, okay?"

She just nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"Hey, look at me," said Clint. She slowly lifted her head again, and her green eyes found his. "You're not yourself now, but you will be soon, alright? Don't worry, I'm going to take care of everything."

As soon as he said it, he knew it was partly untrue. She _was _herself; at least, a part of her that she had never shown before - a part that was not supposed to be known. But he had seen it, he thought. He had seen it all along even though he had never been quite sure how.

"You're trying to save me," said Natasha, amused.

Clint smiled, and she thought it was the first genuine smile he had offered her. "No, not really. I'm just trying to keep you alive."

She smiled back. "You're not doing a very good job of it."

He laughed. She noticed how it lit up his face and that his eyes sprang to life. She decided it was quite nice, actually, whatever nice was...

They sat there together for a while without saying much.

And that was the fourth time.


End file.
